Hero Gerd Honsik passes into the realm of our departed warriors

THE DOGS OF PERBÁL

by Gerd Honsik

(English translation by Margaret Huffstickler)

As we turned our backs on our village,

No one waved goodbye,

Only our dogs followed in our tracks

And strangers already entered our gardens,

As we came, with bag and baggage, away, on foot.

Perbal, farewell! A German village must go;

But some looked back again!

“The church tower, Mother, I can still see it!”

“Be quiet, my child, you must go on now:

It won’t hurt — if you trust in God!”

.

Hand luggage only! House and yard left behind!

Say to those who later ask,

“What was it like in Hungary?” – “No rifle-butts,

No murder — luckily! We were only driven

To Piliszaba, before daylight.”

.

In the exodus of eighteen million

Perbal was just a tiny episode

“For the German people’s industry, their plowing, sowing, toiling —

– for centuries! – Is this how you reward us,

As beggars – and strangers – to send us back? ”

Then, at the train station, roughly

They drove away the pack of Perbal’s dogs,

Who all, all had followed us.

The cattle cars had already arrived

To collect us for the final trek.

“Move back! Squeeze in closer! The engine’s starting!”

Through the planks I heard strange, rough voices;

Outside, the dogs were encamped around the rails,

Our old Juju among them.

Meanwhile we — children, mothers — inside on straw.

A hissing and snarling: the train has started up!

In the dogs’ giant chorus the sorrow swells.

The pain of the faithful creatures penetrates us

In the windowless darkness: We’re moving!

Their farewell stretches out to eternity.

The boiler whistled, the wheels were turning now:

The giant pack followed the train of sorrow

As far as dogs’ paws could reach.

Till even the fastest animals’ strength waned,

Their last cries carried away by the Puszta wind.

.

We left quietly the house where we were born,

Almost without pain, resigned ourselves to it;

But since that time the wailing plagues our ears,

Of Perbal’s dogs we left behind that day

Abandoned and alone.

Margaret Huffstickler writes: I don't know the title of the following poem, which I found on a forum, and translated today in honor of Gerd. It seems emblematic of him - his father was killed in Italy fighting for the Reich.

Poem

The youth sways on his dancing steed: ”Say, father, where shall I ride?
There are many roads, the world is wide, and I cannot interpret the signs.

The old man hesitates and says: 'It's easier to help than advise.
But I advise you, do not go North - there you’ll find only canyons and shadows!

See, in the South, I know of wine and and the figures of dark maidens.
There you’ll be welcome, in the shady old taverns.

Or travel East, to the Orient, the realm of fairy tales and dreams.
Lend your sword arm to the princes there, for gold and precious stones.

If the South and the East don’t entice you, then urge your horse to the West.
Southern heat and Nordic light flash on the windows of fortresses there!

The boy hesitates, he curbs the stallion: 'My father, one more question:
How did you yourself choose on that long-gone day of departure?

The old man turns harshly, trembling: 'I myself rode North 
And have fought all my life in vain - for Germany!’

The reins are loosed, and the horse shoots off: That’s how a young man likes to part!
He salutes with his naked sword from high on the ridge, where the paths diverge.

The old man shouts: “How did you choose? What is your destination?”
The young man shouts – it rings out jubilantly: “My father, I'm riding North!”